competing voices
volatile spring sings loudest
lightning
chorus
bridge
Semi-Daily Scribbles
Carving out a corner to post random crap.
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A rock with a chip on her shoulder was told to slow her roll. The teller at the cloud bank was very clear when she told the rock what happens when a pebble or a boulder works its will and shapes its fate and forces fortune into a constrictive definition. The clear and concise message conveyed by the teller to the rock was: Nothing."A division much higher than mine is in charge of Plans Revealed and Destinies Fulfilled," the teller explained to the rock, "and they adhere to bankers' hours. My advice to you? Make minutes meaningful and bind them with a sturdy thread. The people upstairs like that sort of thing. It shows them you won't knock down just any old door. Patience now, yes?" The teller at the cloud bank then told the rock to go home.
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Attachment: 1 Image
A single shot is all I get.
Which road has better scenery: Fanaticism or Freedom?
What state of bliss grows ever sweeter: Adoration or Manipulation?The calm spot that swallows fear is a mirage. Take a step, another step, lunge/drop/roll.
There is no better solution than la ilusión. -
To self-educate is way better than to self-medicate. And hey, a gal doesn't want to go through life as a thwarted intellectual, does she? Turn up the dial, amigos. Your community is waiting. So what if your feet haven't found anything solid on which to stand? Build your base and let time manage the project's schedule. Wisdom eaters will find your door and happily queue up for a copy of your half-completed Masterwerk. Let them finish it and weep. Your best effort is back at the starting line. Begin again … and again … and again … and gain a whole new audience. -
Initial mission? Sit down and see if you can deliberately dream. Float with a specific intention in mind. Go. So far, so-so? I have full confidence in you. (A note: there is always something you must fight through before you get the honor to fail spectacularly.) Left in the wake will be caskets filled with misappropriated memories. A lot of oppositional talk, too, and awareness that rubs you the wrong way. This is what happens when the grain is done gone against. One more turn of the crank. Corrective measures (committed friction, interdiction) ensure feelings get threshed at the end of each fertile season. -
Hidden within paint
Darla's art is family
Bloodlines are erasedand now for an observation curious and dark:
"Puzzle pieces, when put together, never show things as they really are."
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Run after stuff
want and grovel
all those pretty things …
Butterfly wings
beat against the
pavement
Paltry payment
not worth the palpitations
Fear the words
As above
So below
Intuition
Malnutrition
Ask for deliverance from
Indecision
Fulfillment is a
reckless passion
Better to laugh at
all the bad influences
that keep us
coming back. -
A spark arced across the wire. A lady wants me to pay her $10.00 if I want to read her online scribbles/blog/magnum opus/un mémoire thing. It's a one-time fee but I will pass on the opportunity. I'm sure she's very nice, though perhaps a bit tipsy. Go here if you need something to read, boys and girls.May The 4th Be With You.
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And that dream! The glass-encased restaurant embedded inside the cave? There was even a waterfall. The setting was beautiful. A door opened onto a warm, cheerful dining room with long tables, red high-backed chairs, lots of candlelight, and flowers everywhere. Red and gold was the color scheme. Every station was supplied with wine and everyone looked relaxed and satisfied. I found my table at the back among the hanging baskets and bird cages. Little yellow birds sang inside their steel worlds. One cage had chirping babies nestled amidst a mound of sticks/grass/napkins. Then the monster, covered in bright, multi-hued plumage, descended from high inside the cave. A flamboyant bird off a cereal box? A disturbed child? A wail filled the room as the feathered beast landed on the table and turned into a boy. He screamed with cyclone-like force directly in the faces of my dinner companions, none of whom I knew. One of them did ask where my father was, however. Home, I said. I would soon be next on Bird Boy's hit list when the diner to my left placed his hand on the mad bird's arm. A small gesture, but none of the others tried to calm the boy down. It was enough to subdue him for a moment. I rose from my chair and hugged the creature, now more human than avian. The boy's psychedelic feathers had been replaced with soft, silky down at some point during the fracas. His hair smelled of hay and strawberries, and he looked up at me with big brown eyes. A fiery shock pierced my stomach as Bird Boy squeezed my middle. I cried out in pain before I succumbed to a fit of sobs and hiccups. The boy began to cry along with me."Oh how I long for these quotidian repasts to come to an end. My hunger has long since left me. Can we leave?" He said through copious tears and snot.
"Sure!" I replied. All this unbridled emotion made me and the boy wheeze and cough. A waiter came to the table just then and filled our glasses all the way with liquid the shade of sparkly garnets.
Semi-Daily Scribbles 